Nox
by Sailor Seraphim
Summary: On a stormy night, stuck in a safehouse with Duo, Trowa reflects on the differences between himself and the Deathscythe pilot.


Nox  
A Gundam Wing Fanfic  
By:  
Sailor Seraphim  
  
  
  
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Author's Notes --  
  
I do not own Gundam Wing or any of its related characters. If I did, the series would be chock-full of tasty shounen ai goodness. I do, however, own the situations which occur in this fic.  
  
This fic belongs to what I've called the Blue Series -- a series of fanfics I've written for my friend, Aoi-chan. They're not related in any other way except for that.   
  
SPOILERS for... not too much, just the series in general. But reading up on Trowa's Episode Zero might be a bit of a help.  
  
WARNINGS for... angst (lots of it), slightly unhinged thoughts, implications of NCS and other not-so-nice-things, and pretty much stream of consciousness. Perhaps some vague TWT. This takes place some time during the series, before all of the G-Boyz head off into space.  
  
//blah// is thoughts.  
  
Enjoy!  
  
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The night had turned bitterly cold, as the snow swirling past the almost covered window attested. The lone, low double bed that occupied one corner of the safehouse (more of a cabin, really) was piled high with every available quilt, blanket, and sheet that the braided boy could get his hands on. And as the wind continued to howl and the temperature continued to drop, Duo had abandoned his perch directly in front of the fireplace to bury himself under the nest of blankets, grumbling the whole time.   
  
Trowa, for his part, had ignored the American's unending soliloquy about the weather as he hunted about the small cabin to look for anything to insulate himself against the cold. The Latin pilot had remained sitting in what Duo had termed "his" chair at the kitchen table, reading through a dog-eared novel as the other boy bustled around before finally succumbing to sleep.  
  
And from his place at the kitchen table, Trowa watched as Duo tossed and turned for a few minutes before curling into a ball in the middle of the bed. The braided boy's features smoothed out in his sleep and it amused Trowa that the American was completely covered by the blankets, only the top of his head and part of his face exposed to the rest of the room.   
  
But... there was something wrong with this picture.   
  
As his green eyes continued to watch Duo's peaceful sleep, Trowa could feel a pit of restlessness start to build up in his chest. He abandoned his book, focusing his attention on the sleeping American as if -- through his sleep -- Duo could tell him what was wrong. But sitting there, in the straight-backed chair with his back to the cold window, watching the chestnut-haired boy slumber easily only served to make the despair grow greater in Trowa's heart.   
  
Duo made a soft mumble and turned onto his back.  
  
Trowa's hands twitched.  
  
//What is Duo doing?// Trowa asked himself. Then he shook his head with a derisive snort. What kind of question was that? What he was feeling was completely illogical. All he was doing was watching the other boy *sleep*. People slept at night. It was normal. So why was Duo's deep slumber bothering him so much? Why wasn't he climbing into the bed himself to get a few hours of respite before the sun climbed up and brought a new day of war to the world-weary soldier? Trowa didn't know why he didn't just succumb -- as Duo had -- and just go to sleep.  
  
Trowa cast an envious glance towards the blissfully sleeping American pilot.  
  
Hadn't he, too, spent a long day behind the controls of his Gundam? He had worked just as hard, toiled just as long, been on as many missions as the other boy. Though what kind of mission necessitated Duo coming back to the safehouse tonight half-dressed and dripping with blood not his own, Trowa did not want to contemplate. The mere thought sent icy trails shivering down his spine.   
  
It had been a surreal experience.   
  
Trowa had been in the middle of preparing his dinner when he had felt the presence of someone else in the small safehouse. Pulling out his gun just in case, Trowa had still been unprepared to see a blood-soaked and weary Duo Maxwell standing in the hallway. From what he could see, the parts of the American pilot that had not been covered by tattered fishnets and tight leather had been liberally splattered with blood. Melting snow mixed with the dark liquid, dripping slowly off Duo's body and leaving a quiet pool on the floor. Then Duo had raised his head, revealing a pasty white face smeared with blood, dirt, and other unidentifiable substances.   
  
But it was the look in the other pilot's eyes that had startled Trowa the most. The look in Duo's violet eyes had been so blank and empty that all Trowa could do was step to the side with his back to the wall as Duo passed him without a word or a smile. Then the braided boy had stepped into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the shower. Deeply disturbed, Trowa had tried to banish the sight of Duo's hollow eyes from his memory, trying to fix his meal again. Still, he couldn't help but be aware of the fact that Duo had stayed in the bathroom for over two hours.   
  
When the American emerged in a cloud of steam and clad in long black pajamas, Duo had been his normal, cheerful and verbose self. He joked easily about how killing Ozzies was a dirty job, but someone had to do it. He eagerly dug into the simple dinner Trowa had prepared, complained about the cold weather, did the dishes, whined about having no entertainment, questioned Trowa about his book, and then bustled about preparing for bed before collapsing into an exhausted sleep. And not once did Trowa bring up Duo's bloodied appearance to the safehouse. Duo said nothing about it either.  
  
How? How could the braided boy laugh so merrily after something like that? How could Duo lie there peacefully asleep while Trowa wandered around aimless and lost like a ghost? So what was the difference? How could Duo laugh and whine and fall down asleep when the horrors of Trowa's missions followed constantly at his heels? How could Duo remain so unaffected by the war all around them?  
  
Duo rolled over again, a silent name on his lips.  
  
Trowa's hands twitched again. The Latin pilot was surprised to find that his pistol was sitting in his grip, pointed at the sleeping American.  
  
Startled, Trowa lay his weapon on the kitchen table carefully, turning his emerald gaze to it instead. The cold piece of metal lay quietly, the dying light from the fireplace making the smooth surfaces of the gun seem to glow. Absently, Trowa started to disassemble his weapon, laying every piece carefully on the tabletop. Then he stared at the numerous pieces, as if *they* could give him the answers he wanted. The soulless pieces of metal had no answer for him though, and Trowa simply sat in the silence of the cold kitchen, listening to the swirl of the storm all around him, and tried not to think too hard.  
  
The bedsprings squeaked. Trowa's eyes darted over to see Duo sprawled out again, one arm falling out of its nest as if reaching out through the cold air to him.   
  
Trowa flinched.  
  
Then he began to assemble his weapon again.  
  
The task was simple -- child's play to him. Indeed, Trowa was familiar with the ways of the gun, with the arts of war; he had been trained from practically his infancy to be a soldier. He knew how to take orders, accomplish a mission, fulfill a goal. He could infiltrate an enemy base, he could level a spaceport, he could even withstand torture. He had been trained to die.   
  
But he couldn't do what Duo did.  
  
He couldn't face every day with a smile and merry laughter. He couldn't simply shut aside the empty feelings that clawed at him -- that made him want to put his pistol in his mouth and simply pull the trigger. And with his weakness exposed, Trowa couldn't help but feel bitter, angry, and confused. He didn't like to compare himself to the other Gundam pilots. They were a motley group, of all different backgrounds and characters. As long as they all completed their missions to destroy OZ, comparisons and contrasts made no difference. But it gnawed at him... the simple fact that Duo Maxwell could be so... *alive*... tortured his mind. It made him wonder if he wasn't doing something *wrong*. That maybe he, too, should be able to fulfill his role and laugh freely.   
  
Trowa shook his head in denial. No, that didn't seem right. In fact, it seemed *wrong* to treat the lives he took so casually. He couldn't just wash his hands clean of the whole affair. Not that the Latin pilot considered the American to be callous. Hardly. The night's recent events made it all too clear that even Duo's soul was burdened by the crushing weight of guilt. But he was so... *happy.* And a sudden, unbidden thought lanced through Trowa's mind as Duo grumbled and turned in his sleep again, tucking the cold appendage back under the cover of blankets. Beneath messy chestnut bangs, a frown was furrowed across the American's brow.   
  
//I want to kill him.//  
  
Trowa's hand tightened over the assembled gun in his grip.   
  
//It could be so easy. He's just lying there. Asleep. I could pull the trigger from here and he would be dead. No one would question the loss of a Gundam pilot. We were trained to be expendable anyway.//   
  
The nature of his thoughts caught up with him, and the Latin pilot felt slightly sick to his stomach. His eyes narrowed and Trowa turned himself slowly away from the harmless and innocent picture that the sleeping Duo Maxwell presented.  
  
//I don't understand,// Trowa frowned, still toying with the gun in his hands. //Why am I thinking such things? Duo is a Gundam pilot, the same as me. To kill him would put our forces at a disadvantage.//  
  
Emerald green eyes flickered in Duo's direction.  
  
//No. He's not the same as me. He can pilot. He can do his missions. He can even stand to have strangers touch him... be close to him... he can... he can do so much that I can't. How? How did he end up so strong? Where does his courage come from? Don't I fight as hard as him? Don't I have something to protect? Doesn't rage and anger burn in my soul? How can he do it? How can Duo do *this* and still sleep at night?!//  
  
Trowa dropped his gun onto the table and started to pace.  
  
//I want it. I want what Duo has. I'd kill for it. Steal for it. Beg for it. But no matter what I do, I just can't have it. How... how did Duo get it?//  
  
Trowa stared out into the dark sky beyond the window.  
  
//How did Duo find the peace to sleep at night? How could I even *think* that I could kill him? Look at him. He's just sleeping there. I've been pacing all around this place and it hasn't even woken him up. I've seen him woken up before. He nearly killed a student at a boarding school who thought it would be funny to pull a prank on him. But Duo... he trusts me. He trusts me enough not to harm him in his sleep.//  
  
Trowa rubbed a shaking hand over his tired eyes. //That's the answer then. I never learned that. I never learned to trust anyone. Not even my allies. I don't have that kind of courage. But Duo has it. And I want it.//  
  
With exhaustion setting in and the knowledge that he might be called for a mission, Trowa made his way to the edge of the blanket-covered bed. He stood next to it, green eyes looking down at Duo snuggled down, blissfully unaware of the events that had just transpired. With a soft sigh, Trowa lifted the edge of the covers -- having to paw through several layers before reaching the bottom -- and slipped in. At first he confined himself to the edge of the bed, as far away as possible from the other pilot as he could be. But even that act tired him, and wearily Trowa scooted across the bed to lay close to the braided boy, their arms just barely brushing. It was as if that simple movement announced his presence like machine gun fire and Duo turned onto his side, one arm landing across Trowa's chest. The Latin pilot froze, unsure of what to do as the American cuddled against him. Then his breathing evened out, his emerald green eyes drifted shut, and Trowa relaxed into the soft support and trust that Duo had given him.  
  
  
  
  
  
-- Owari -- 


End file.
